About to Crash
by annonwrite
Summary: S1 AU. As Peter and Neal start working together, Peter notices some concerning habits and patterns in his CI. It becomes clear that Neal is Not Okay. The problem is that part of what makes Neal Not Okay is also part of what makes Neal, Neal.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I got this idea while re-watching S1. I think parts are true to Neal's character, but other parts are intentionally OOC. This was going to be a one-shot, but then it got absurdly long, so now it's a two-shot. Part two will be posted soon-ish. Thank you for reading!

###

It was their third case together. They were still learning. Still feeling each other out. Apparently Neal was still testing boundaries, because when the undercover operation went wrong and Peter told Neal to get out _now_ , the CI didn't listen. The last thing Peter heard before they lost contact was a gunshot.

Peter ran frantically toward Neal's last known location, terrifying possibilities running through his mind. He rounded the corner into an alley and braced himself for the worst, but what he found wasn't the worst. Far from it. The criminal was face down on the pavement, hands tied behind his back. One of Neal's feet was pressed casually between his shoulder blades to keep him still.

"Hey, Peter!" Neal said brightly. "Glad you could join us. What took you so long?"

"I told you to get out of there," Peter hissed at Neal while slapping a real pair of handcuffs on the man's wrists.

"If I would have listened to you, this guy," Neal nudged the man's shoulder with his right foot, "would still be free."

Peter stood to his full height, which, thankfully, was a couple of inches taller than Neal. "You could have been killed," he all but growled. "Probably _should_ have been killed."

Neal just shrugged. "But I wasn't. Come on. I think I hear your back-up."

It was that shrug that stuck with Peter. Like Neal didn't think he'd really been in danger, or he didn't care even if he was. Even if it meant losing his life. Peter mentally filed that shrug away and started reading the criminal his rights.

###

A few days later, Peter perched on the edge of Neal's desk with a cup of coffee in his hands. "Morning." He took a sip, wincing when it burned his tongue.

"Morning, Peter," Neal said, not looking up from the ball he was tossing one-handed above his head, catching it every time.

"Shouldn't you be working on the case instead of playing catch?"

Neal caught the ball one more time and leaned forward with both arms on his desk. "Sure. What do you want me to work on?"

Peter frowned. "The bonds? I distinctly recall giving you a box to go through before I left yesterday." He nudged said box with his foot.

The CI smiled and removed the lid. What had been a disorganized mess of paper was now three neat stacks. "Sorted into forged and not forged. But we were wrong, there wasn't one guy doing the forging. There were two. I sorted the forged ones by suspect to make it easier."

What surprised Peter most wasn't the fact that they suddenly had another unknown suspect on their hands, but that Neal had time to go through even a fraction of the bonds between receiving them and now. It would have taken anyone else days to go through. "When did you do all of this?"

Neal shrugged. "I got bored, so I came back and worked for a while." He grinned. "Plus, when you're this good, it doesn't take long."

Peter rolled his eyes and was about to comment on Neal's ego when he noticed something. "What's that on your sleeve?"

Neal frowned and turned his right arm so he could see what Peter was pointing to, a splotch on the inside of his elbow. He scratched at it with one fingernail. "Crap. That's oil-based. Going to be tough to get out."

"Oil-based paint? Have you been painting this morning, too?"

When Neal looked up, his smile returned. "Just a few things. You should see this one I'm working on. I think Elizabeth would really like it. It's more abstract than I usually do, but—"

The work last night…the painting this morning… "Neal, did you sleep at all?"

He looked at the ceiling like a kid taking a test who thought the answer might be written there. "I think so. At least an hour or two." The casual way he said the words made it clear there wasn't anything strange about that. Not to him.

Peter shook his head and sipped at the coffee that was currently the only thing keeping him awake even though he'd had three or four times as much sleep as his CI. "Wish I had your energy."

"Seriously, though. The painting. If Elizabeth likes it, she can have it. And if…"

Neal rambled on about paintings and the bonds and a million other things at a pace far too rapid for this early in the morning. Peter just tried to keep up.

###

A few nights later, Peter rubbed his thumb over his wife's bare shoulder. It was late enough that they should both be asleep, but Peter's mind wouldn't stop turning. "I don't know, El. He's impulsive. Reckless. I thought with the anklet I wouldn't have to worry about him. But I do."

"But hon, it all sounds very well-intentioned. When he disobeyed orders, it was only to help you catch a guy, which he did. And yes, he's been impulsive a few times, but he's a criminal. Did you really expect that impulsivity to disappear overnight?"

Peter sighed and adjusted his head against his pillow. "I guess not. But I also didn't expect him to make decisions that put himself or others in danger. If that continues, our agreement won't work out. I'll have to put him back behind bars."

As if in response, the cell phone on his nightstand started vibrating. He sighed. Calls at this time of night were never a good thing.

"This is Burke."

"Agent Burke, this is the Marshals' office. Neal Caffrey just went outside his radius."

Inside, Peter swore. Outside, he said, "Where is he?"

The deputy gave the location, and Peter ended the call.

"Who was that?" El asked.

He pushed off the covers and climbed out of his warm, soft bed. "The Marshals' office. Neal is outside his radius."

El frowned. "So much for good intentions."

Even hurrying, it took some time for Peter to get dressed and into Manhattan, so he called the Marshals and got the same deputy on the line. "I need an updated location for Neal Caffrey."

"Caffrey is back inside his radius. Has been for the past few minutes," the deputy said, and gave the slightly updated address. "Looks like he just went across the street and straight back."

Peter wrinkled his forehead. "Are you sure? Maybe he thought he was still inside his radius?"

"It would have beeped at him. He knew."

Peter sighed heavily as he turned onto the correct street. "Okay. I'll check it out."

When he pulled up, it was easy to locate Neal. He was one of the only people out and around at this time of night, sitting on a bench. It looked like he was eating something.

Peter parked the car, stuck his keys in his pocket, and walked over.

Neal looked up at the approaching footsteps and grinned. "Peter! Hey! What are you doing here?"

"You were outside your radius."

Neal stuck his leg out, showing off the solid green light. "I'm not now."

"I realize that, but that doesn't change the fact that you _were_. What the hell were you doing?"

There was a napkin tucked in the front of Neal's shirt, protecting the tie he'd worn to work that day. "Getting this." He folded back some paper to reveal that "this" was a taco.

A taco.

Peter was practically speechless. "You're going back to jail over a _taco_?"

"No, no, no. No jail. But yes, a taco. A _delicious_ taco," Neal clarified.

"Neal, are you high?"

The CI scoffed. "You know me better than that."

"Drunk?"

"No. Had a glass of wine, but that was hours ago."

Peter sat down on the bench next to Neal and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I'm going to need you to walk me through this. From the beginning. Why are you out at this time of night?"

Neal took a big bite of his taco. "Couldn't sleep," he said around the mouthful of food. "Wanted to go for a walk."

"So you got to the edge of your radius, and then…?" Peter held up a hand. "Please swallow before answering."

He did. "I got hungry. I was _starving_ , Peter. And the tacos smelled so good, and it was only four steps outside my radius, and I was only out for maybe five minutes. The lady making the tacos hurried a lot. I think maybe she thought the beeping from my anklet was from a bomb. I tipped her well." He took another bite.

It took everything in Peter's power not to smack the taco right out of Neal's hand. "Do you really expect me to explain to the higher ups that insomnia led you outside your radius for Mexican food and they'll be okay with it?"

Neal didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

"Neal!"

The CI just laughed. "Peter, relax! It's going to be fine. Tell them how hungry I was. _Starving_."

"Neal."

"Tell them I'm hypoglycemic and needed cheese and sour cream immediately."

" _Neal_."

The younger man reached into his paper tray, lifted another taco, and held it out in Peter's direction. "Want one? They really are delicious."

Peter just glared. "We have _got_ to do something about your impulsivity. I don't know if I'm going to be able to get you out of this."

"Tacos make everything better."

"This is not some 'I give you an inch, you take a mile' thing. Even if I _can_ get you out of this, which is a big if, next time will be different. I don't care if your late-night craving is for frozen yogurt or a hot dog or an artichoke. You _stay inside your radius_."

"Understood."

With a sigh, Peter snatched the taco out of Neal's hand and took a big bite. He'd never admit it to Neal, but it was the best damn taco he'd ever had.

###

Miraculously, Peter was able to get Neal out of trouble. It took more bargaining than the agent was comfortable with, but the infraction was small enough that the higher ups were willing to look the other way.

All weekend, Peter kept a close eye on Neal's tracking data, but it turned out it wasn't really necessary.

"What's on Neal TV?" El asked, draping her arms over her husband's shoulders from behind.

"A repeat. He's at June's. Still. Where he's been since Friday night."

"Isn't that a good thing? He's staying out of trouble like you asked him to."

He sighed. "I'm afraid such a drastic change from the norm can only mean trouble."

El put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed the tight muscles. "You're worried he took off the anklet and left it at home?"

"No. His location moves slightly every once in a while. It can't be just sitting there. Which means I don't know what to be worried about." He picked up his phone and dialed Neal's cell. Straight to voicemail, just like this morning.

"Hon, if you want to go over there to make sure everything's okay, I'm not going to stop you."

With another sigh, he closed his laptop and turned in his chair to face his wife. "No." He took her hands in his. "It's Sunday night, I'm off duty, Neal is theoretically where he's supposed to be, and all I want to do is spend time with my stunningly beautiful wife."

El smiled and leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips. "Whatever you say, Agent Burke."

###

The next morning, Peter headed to June's to pick up Neal for work. The tracker still hadn't moved, so Peter wasn't sure what to expect. He knocked. Listened. Didn't hear a sound.

"Neal," he called, knocking again. No response.

With a sigh, he took his key from his pocket and opened the door. He kept one hand on his gun, just in case.

"Neal?" he asked as he walked inside. "It's me."

The apartment looked fine. Except for a couple of empty glasses in the sink, nothing was out of place. He swept the room with a careful eye, finally landing on the bed. He kept quiet and walked slowly over to the visible tufts of dark, wavy brown hair. It was definitely Neal, and he was definitely alone, either asleep, or…

Peter nudged the younger man's shoulder. Neal grunted at the contact, and Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Hey. Neal. You overslept. Time to get up."

In response, the CI just curled up on his side, facing the wall.

Peter sighed. "Come on. You are not in high school and I am not your dad. You need to get up for work. We're going to be late."

"Not going to work," Neal mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah, I don't think that's a decision you get to make." He thought about tugging the blankets down or tipping the mattress, but if Neal slept in the nude, that would be awkward for everyone. "Let's go. Up and at 'em."

"Leave me alone."

This was completely unlike the charming kid Peter knew. Concern worked its way back into his brain. "Hey. Are you okay?"

No response.

"Will you please roll over and talk to me?"

It took a few seconds and a heavy sigh, but Neal obeyed. The exhausted look on his pale face showed that all was not well in Neal's world.

"Is this about Kate?"

"No."

"Another girl?"

"No."

Clearly they were going to play twenty questions. "Are you feeling okay?"

"No."

Peter frowned and pressed his palm to Neal's forehead. "You don't have a fever."

Neal nodded but didn't say anything, like he knew, but didn't particularly care.

Peter noticed that Neal's hair looked slightly greasy. There was also more stubble than usual on his face. "Have you been in bed all weekend?"

A shrug. "Guess so."

Despite the lack of fever, Neal really must not be feeling well.

"Okay. I'll let you rest today. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes, as if this brief discussion had sapped his last ounce of energy.

"Can I get you anything before I go?"

The CI cracked one eye open. "What, are you going to make me tea? Serve it with cucumber sandwiches?"

The questions were just sarcastic enough, just _Caffrey_ enough that Peter didn't feel guilty about leaving him alone. "Right." He noticed Neal's cell phone on the nightstand. When he pressed the power button, nothing happened. "Your phone's dead."

Neal pulled one hand from the covers long enough to motion vaguely at a white cord snaking its way down to an outlet.

Peter plugged the phone in and made sure it powered up. "It's charging. I'm going to call and check on you later. Answer it. And call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," Neal said in a way that let Peter know he wouldn't be getting a phone call.

"Feel better."

And maybe it wasn't tea or cucumber sandwiches, but he did place a glass of water on Neal's bedside table before quietly leaving the apartment.

###

"I made a doctor appointment for you." It was Wednesday morning, and Neal wasn't showing any signs of improvement. The container of chicken soup El sent over the day before was still full in the fridge. The half-finished painting on his easel was untouched. His tracking data showed he hadn't left the apartment and had barely left his bed for days.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Neal said. "I just don't feel good."

"The fact that you don't feel good _is_ something wrong," Peter said.

"Don't need a doctor."

Peter folded his arms over his chest. "You have a choice. You can go to the doctor, or you can go back to jail."

Neal nuzzled into his pillow. "Or I can stay here."

"Not a choice. Your appointment is at nine. You should take a quick shower." It had obviously been a few days since Neal had seen soap or water. Or a toothbrush.

"No."

Peter felt like he was arguing with a five-year-old. "Come on, Caffrey. Cowboy up."

After a heavy sigh, Neal threw off his covers and dropped his feet over the side of the bed. He sat there for a minute, letting some obvious dizziness pass, before shuffling to the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Thank goodness.

But two minutes passed without any running water. Then four. Then five.

"Neal?" Peter asked, knocking. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Thankfully, the door was unlocked. "I'm coming in."

When he opened the door, Neal was sitting on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his pajama-covered knees, head in his hands.

"I can't do this," he whispered.

"Can't do what?"

He looked up with watery blue eyes. "Anything. Just send me back to prison."

Concern spiked hard and fast in Peter's gut. He leaned over and turned on the shower. "Come on," he said gently, like he hadn't even heard Neal's comment. "I'll help you."

###

The doctor worked quickly but thoroughly. She looked in his ears and mouth. Felt the glands in his neck and listened to his heart and lungs. Palpated his abdomen and asked numerous questions about his symptoms. No to a sore throat and upset stomach. Yes to a headache, body aches, exhaustion, dizziness, and loss of appetite.

Finally, she took a seat on a stool across from Peter and Neal.

"What do you think?" Peter asked her.

"Hard to say. I don't see anything immediately obvious. Sounds like it could be a strain of mono or just a virus. We'll run some tests and go from there." She turned to Neal. "You also appear to be moderately dehydrated. Have you been drinking enough?"

"Yes. Maybe." He wrapped his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Make sure you get plenty of fluids. What about eating? I know you haven't had an appetite, but have you eaten anyway?"

Peter could answer that one. "No, he hasn't."

"That needs to change. If you can't eat or drink, I'm going to have to admit you to the hospital. Okay?"

"Okay," Neal said, staring down at his legs, which hung over the edge of the examination table.

The doctor turned to her computer to put in the orders for blood tests. When she finished, she turned back to them. "The lab is down the hall to the right. I'll call as soon as I have the results. Take care of yourself, Mr. Caffrey."

Soon, the tests were complete, and they were in the car on the way back to June's.

"Drink that," Peter said, nodding to the water bottle in Neal's lap. The phlebotomist had a hard time drawing the CI's blood because he was so dehydrated, so they'd had him drink a bottle of water in the office, and sent him with another one for the trip home.

Neal removed the cap and took a drink.

"What do you want to eat?" Peter asked. "Soup? Take out?"

A pause. "I…I don't know. Nothing really sounds good."

"Does being admitted to the hospital sound good?"

"No."

"Then tell me what you want to eat. One of those tacos you liked so much?"

Neal visibly flinched. "No. I guess soup might be okay."

Peter nodded and kept driving. He could heat up what El had sent over. "If you have mono, you'll probably be off work for a few weeks. Been kissing anyone else who's sick?"

"It's not mono," Neal said, leaning his head against the window.

But honestly, Peter kind of hoped it was. Because that would explain this. It would run its course, and Neal would be back on his feet. Not fun, but simple.

Later that afternoon, once Neal had been set up with soup, water, and tea, and June had been alerted to his condition in order to keep an eye on him, Peter's phone rang.

"Agent Burke. This is Dr. Johansen. We have permission to discuss the results of Neal's blood tests with you."

"And?"

"Neal is fine."

Peter frowned, because Neal was obviously not _fine_. "What do you mean?"

"The mono, strep throat, and flu tests were all negative. His white blood cell counts aren't elevated, which indicates he doesn't have a virus or bacterial infection. His tests did show signs of dehydration and nutrient deficiencies, but everything else looked perfect."

"So what's wrong with him?"

"My best guess is that he might have had an infection of some kind, maybe over the weekend, and his body has already fought it off. Once he's eating and drinking properly again, he'll probably feel a lot better. I'll fax over a note to excuse him from work the rest of the week, but if he feels up to returning before then, he can. Just make sure he takes care of himself."

"I will," Peter promised.

"Oh, and Agent Burke?"

"Yes?"

"Remember, if he can't eat or drink, call us back soon. And even if he can, but he's not feeling better by Monday, give me a call. I want to make sure there's nothing else going on."

Peter was afraid to ask what that "else" might be.

###

Between Peter, El, and June, they made sure Neal stayed hydrated and fed, even if he wasn't happy about it. Mozzie, germophobe that he was, kept his distance, but made periodic deliveries of Neal's favorite foods and herbal supplements.

The fact that Neal spent another weekend in bed indicated that he still didn't feel well, but when Peter showed up Monday morning to find his CI showered, dressed, and shaved, it looked like he'd turned the corner.

"Hey!" Peter said brightly. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah."

"Great! Ready to head back to work?"

Neal shrugged. "Guess so."

"Don't sound so thrilled about it."

"I'll try to contain my excitement."

"Good. Let's go."

Neal was quiet during the drive. He was quiet while he settled back into the office, going through e-mail and forcing half-smiles for everyone who welcomed him back. He was quiet during their morning meeting, going over details about their latest case.

"Neal, what would you do if you were this guy?" Peter asked.

Neal looked up from where he'd been staring at the table. "Huh?"

"What would you do? If you needed to get the money out of the country unnoticed in less than forty-eight hours, what would be your plan?"

"I…I would…."

But it was clear Neal had no idea how to finish that sentence.

"Just let us know if you think of anything, okay?"

Peter heard what the doctor had said. Neal was supposedly healthy. But he was having a hard time believing it.

###

It was two in the morning, and someone was pounding incessantly on Peter's front door. He had one hand on his gun and one hand on the door when he recognized the tall, slim frame on the other side of the glass.

"Neal," he hissed as he opened the door. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"I figured it out."

"Figured what out? Get inside, will you?" It was raining, and though Peter knew illnesses came from germs, not wet hair, he wasn't willing to take chances after the rough couple of weeks Neal had.

"The Brown case." Neal stepped inside and dripped on the rug. "I figured out how he's going to move the money." With that, he launched into an extremely detailed, extremely fast-paced explanation.

Peter tried to keep up, but got lost somewhere along the way. He held up a hand to stop his CI. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Remember, unlike you, I was sound asleep thirty seconds ago. I need you to try again and a go a little slower."

Neal laughed. "Fine. Let's go make a pot of coffee, and I'll start from the beginning."

The younger man headed toward the kitchen, but Peter didn't follow. Neal had _laughed_. And it had stuck out. Which made Peter realize that he hadn't heard Neal laugh or even seen him smile since before he got sick.

Neal turned expectantly. "What are you waiting for?"

"You're feeling better, aren't you?"

He smiled his charming Caffrey smile. "I feel fantastic."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in weeks.

###

With Neal's insight, they quickly and successfully closed the Brown case and the two that followed after that. Neal was back to normal, and it was easy to forget that he'd even been sick.

He was back to being reckless – there was one case where his recklessness and failure to obey led to a few cracked ribs, but they caught a dangerous criminal and Neal's pain seemed minimal, so Peter could hardly complain.

He was back to being impulsive – there were no more late night taco runs, but plenty of pretty girls and smart-mouthed comments to higher ups and sticky fingers, which Peter had to un-stick and explain away to said higher ups.

The more time passed, the more Neal seemed to escalate. He worked harder. He talked faster. He slept less. He laughed louder. He constantly assured Peter that he was fine, he was great.

And he was.

Until he wasn't.

When Peter walked in Neal's apartment, the younger man was sitting at the table, dressed and ready for work with his hat in his hands. It was his posture that made the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand on end. Neal was deflated like a three-day-old balloon.

"You okay?" Peter asked.

Neal looked up, as if he hadn't heard the agent approach. "Yeah."

It sounded like "no." They'd worked late the night before. They'd been together until at least eight or nine. Everything had seemed fine then. What had happened between then and now to cause this? This lack of spark. Lack of energy. Lack of everything that made Neal Caffrey.

Peter cleared his throat. "You sleep okay?"

Another yes that didn't sound like a yes.

He tried again. "Did something happen after we left last night? You seem a little…down."

"I'm sorry."

"No, Neal, it's fine. You don't have to smile every minute of every day. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Neal stared at his hat. "Okay."

Peter tried to push his worry aside. "You ready to go?"

Instead of answering, Neal stood and followed behind Peter like a little duck who didn't know his way.

He never did move his hat from his hand to his head.

###

Peter was going through some paperwork when there was a knock on his door. He looked up and motioned for Jones to enter. "Did that DNA evidence come back already?"

Jones shifted from one foot to the other, looking decidedly un-Jones-like. "Not yet."

Peter waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Something wrong?"

"No. I mean, yes. It's Caffrey."

Peter immediately looked to Neal's desk, which was empty. His stomach sank. "What happened? Where is he?"

Jones looked at the floor while he talked. "I just went to the bathroom – too much coffee this morning – and he was in there, and you know me, normally I'm not the kind of guy who pays attention to other guys while we're in the bathroom, especially not—"

" _Jones_."

Clinton looked up. "He's crying. Just standing there, sobbing. He wouldn't tell me what's wrong. I said I'd come get you."

Peter was out the door and into the bathroom within seconds. Thankfully, they were alone.

"Neal?" he asked, putting a hand on the younger man's shaking shoulder. "What's wrong?"

When Neal didn't respond, Peter frantically checked him over. He didn't appear to be injured. He didn't have a fever. His pulse was normal.

Peter threw out questions rapid-fire, waiting only for a headshake before going on to the next: did someone hurt you? Did someone threaten you? Did you throw up? Are you feeling sick again? Are you afraid? Is this about a girl? All no, no, no.

Finally, Peter gripped Neal's shoulders, trying not to squeeze too tight but probably failing. "Neal. I need you to tell me what's wrong. Whatever happened, even if it's bad, I just need you to tell me so I can help, okay?"

Neal looked up. Tears streamed, dropping down his cheeks and darkening his shirt like raindrops. "I want to die," he said, barely above a whisper.

There had been FBI training on this. On what to say and how to react when someone made this kind of statement. But Peter couldn't remember a single word of it.

He pulled Neal into a hug that the younger man didn't return. He wrapped his arm around shaking shoulders and led him out of the bathroom and out of the building.

It was when he was sitting in the ER waiting room after Neal had been taken back that he remembered Neal's shrug from their third case. The "I don't care that I almost died" shrug.

Everything was adding up. Something was wrong with Neal. Something had been wrong for a while, maybe even before he became Peter's CI.

Peter closed his eyes and prayed that he hadn't noticed too late.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Remember when I said this was going to be two parts? Yeah. It has taken on a life of its own, so probably three. Sorrrryyyyy. But thank you for reading!

###

"In your opinion, would you say Neal is depressed?"

Neal's psychiatrist was pretty – kind smile, long brown hair, and blue eyes that rivaled Caffrey's. She was also young enough that Peter had run a search just to make sure she was qualified to be treating his CI. The number of awards and accolades Dr. Hill received in medical school and her residency quickly convinced him that Neal was in good hands.

They were in a hospital conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall that made the room feel bigger than it actually was.

Peter sighed. "Before today? No. Neal is…" He sighed and pressed his thumbnail into the rim of his Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Either he's happy or he's a damn good actor. He's charming and energetic. He smiles all the time. He's sharp. Smart. Quick."

Dr. Hill raised her eyebrows. "That description is a pretty far cry from Neal's current state."

"Yeah. This…whatever it is, it isn't normal."

"Has he been like this before? Not necessarily suicidal, but this far from normal?"

He started to say no, but then realized that wasn't true. "A couple of weeks ago. He wasn't feeling well. He stayed home from work for a week and barely left his bed or ate or drank or smiled. He wasn't himself."

"Did he see a doctor?"

Peter nodded. "They didn't find anything wrong with him."

Dr. Hill jotted something down on her notepad. "How long would he say he was out of sorts?"

"Two weeks, maybe?"

"And then what happened? What changed?"

"He showed up at my front door in the middle of the night with a solution to the case we'd been working on. I have no clue what happened, but it was like a switch flipped. He wasn't okay, and then he was."

The doctor nodded. "Until this week?"

"Yeah. Then the switch flipped the other way." He frowned at his own words. They were so familiar. Too familiar. "Is Neal bipolar?"

The doctor leaned back in her chair. "I won't know anything until after his full evaluation, but I assume psychology was part of your FBI education and training?"

Peter nodded, but chose not to share that he knew more about bipolar disorder than any course could account for.

"Clearly he's shown signs of a couple depressive episodes. What about in between? Have you noticed anything that could be considered manic? Elevated mood or irritability, grandiosity, decreased need for sleep, thinking or talking quickly, disregard for consequences…"

"Pretty much all of that. Especially the last one."

Dr. Hill made another note. "You've only been working with Neal for a couple of months, right? Is there a family member or friend who's known him longer than that who would be willing to answer some questions?"

Peter considered the fact that Mozzie would likely lie just to keep Neal _out_ of the hospital, and that was only if he'd step through the door in the first place. "Neal's a criminal. He doesn't get close with many people, and the ones who do can be…reluctant to cooperate."

She smiled. "Fair enough."

"I can submit a request to share our files with you. That would include prison notes and our investigations. It won't cover everything, but it's something."

"Any information would be beneficial. And the sooner, the better."

"Consider it done."

Dr. Hill asked a few more questions, if Neal displayed multiple personalities or talked to people who weren't there or experienced anxiety or panic attacks, but none of that described Neal. In Peter's mind, the diagnosis was already clear. He just couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

At the end of their meeting, he thanked Dr. Hill for her time. But when he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to her. "I know Neal is a criminal. But he's not violent. He wouldn't hurt a fly. I just don't want his label or the tracker on his ankle to have any impact on the care he receives."

"It won't," Dr. Hill assured him.

He believed her.

###

There was something disconcerting about seeing Neal in a hospital gown. It made him look vulnerable. Exposed. If the CI were well enough, he'd almost certainly be complaining about the crime against fashion.

Neal was curled up on his side, facing the window, a thin blanket pulled up over his waist. His eyes were closed, so Peter took a seat in the visitor's chair at the foot of the bed. He was going through e-mails on his phone, deleting the ones that didn't require his attention, when Neal spoke up.

"Are you disappointed in me?" The words were slow and heavy. The nurse had mentioned that they'd given him a mild sedative to calm his shaking and crying.

Peter pocketed his phone and slid his chair up to the side of the bed. Neal's eyes were heavy-lidded but open, following the agent's movements. "Absolutely not. These things happen. I'm just sorry it's happening to you."

Neal stretched his legs out and then winced, one hand going to his side.

"Those ribs bugging you?"

A shrug.

It made sense. If Neal had been manic when he cracked the ribs, which he almost certainly was, the pain would have been easy to ignore. It probably wasn't as easy now. Peter wondered how many more things would start to make sense when he looked at them through this lens. "Want me to see if they can give you some Tylenol?"

A headshake. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Neal's unfocused gaze was on the window, like he wasn't really seeing either the glass or anything on the other side of it.

"Neal, can I call anyone for you? Is there anyone you'd like to be here with you?" He knew the answer. He'd seen the log of Neal's visitors in prison, or lack thereof. But he asked anyway.

Neal closed his eyes. "Kate would curl up in bed with me. She'd hold on…" He swallowed hard. "She'd make me a thousand cups of chamomile tea with honey. It didn't make me feel better. Nothing did. But it was…it was."

So Dr. Hill's suspicion was right. This had been going for a while. And of course, the one person Neal wanted was the one person Peter couldn't find.

"She's gone because of me." A tear slipped between his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek.

"Hey, no. Don't do that," Peter said.

Neal didn't open his eyes again. "I'm tired," he whispered.

Peter nodded even though the younger man couldn't see it. "I'll let you get some rest. I'll be back to check on you, but have them call me if you need anything before then, okay?"

He received the slightest nod in response.

###

Peter swung by the office long enough to submit the rush request to share Neal's records with Dr. Hill. He gathered up Neal's most recent files, as many as he could carry. On his way out, he asked Jones to keep an eye out for the request approval and keep quiet about the whole thing.

"Hey, hon," he called as he opened the front door, juggling the files with one hand. As soon as he set them down on the coffee table, he gave Satchmo a few pats.

"Peter?" El called. She walked in from the kitchen, her hair pulled back and her favorite pen in her hand. "You're home early. Is everything okay?"

He went to his wife and pulled her into a hug, savoring the comfort of her arms on his back and the way she fit beneath his chin. "Not really. Neal's in the hospital."

"Neal Caffrey? What happened?"

"Jones found him crying in the bathroom, and he told me he wanted to die."

El leaned back and studied his face. "What? Hon, what happened? Why would he say that? Did he hurt himself?"

He released her and went to sit on the couch. El sat next to him and put her hand on his knee. "No, he didn't do anything," Peter said. "Thank goodness. And I don't know much else yet. He's at the hospital on a seventy-two hour hold. They're going to evaluate him."

"Oh, hon. That's terrible. I'm so glad he told you, though."

Peter knew what could have happened if he hadn't. They both did.

"Are those his files?" El asked, nodding to the stack.

"Yes. I requested permission to share them with his doctor, but in the meantime, I want to take a look. See if anything sticks out."

She nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you? Or for Neal?"

"They sedated him, so he's resting. I told him I'd be back later."

"I'll go with you," she said without question.

He leaned over and kissed her. "Thank you."

"Of course." She stood and kissed his forehead. "I'm working in the kitchen if you need anything. Satch, stay with your daddy."

The dog obediently curled up to warm Peter's feet.

A couple of hours later, Peter had printed calendars for the past several years. He went through the files, locating everything with an associated date and writing it in the appropriate square on his papers. Then he grabbed two highlighters. The suspected crimes, the escapes, the disciplinary notes for mouthing off to guards or getting in fights with other criminals were all highlighted in yellow. Everything else, the handful of prison notes about refusal to get out of bed or eat, about requesting Tylenol from the infirmary for headaches or backaches, the times they expected him to show up somewhere but he didn't without explanation, were all highlighted in blue. Eventually he highlighted the blank days, the empty days, in blue, too. It would be easy to think those were just the days when Neal was behaving. Coloring inside the lines. But the pattern of wide stretches of blue and yellow made it look less and less likely that was true.

Peter hesitated before clearing his throat. "Hey, El?"

A few seconds later, she walked into the room. "Did you call me?"

"I want to show you something."

She frowned. "Is it about Neal?"

He nodded and held out the calendars.

Still frowning, she asked, "What is all of this?"

He explained his system, giving her a few examples of blue events and yellow events. He gave her some time, and then asked, "What do you think?"

When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "I think Neal looks a lot on paper like Adam looked in real life."

Peter nodded. Adam had been El's older brother. He'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder when El was in high school, and committed suicide the year after she and Peter got married.

"You think Neal is bipolar?" she asked.

He rubbed one hand over his face. "We'll have to see what the doctors say. But he's clearly in the midst of his second depressive episode since he's been with the bureau—"

"When he was sick," El said, making the connection.

"Yeah. I don't think he was as much physically sick as he was depressed. Hell, he practically _told_ me that. I just didn't listen. I wanted an easy explanation."

She flipped through the papers again and ran her thumb over a date. "Lots of yellow around when you first caught him."

Peter nodded. "Around when he escaped, too." His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He picked it up and read the text from Jones, and then started packing up the files. "I have permission to share these with Dr. Hill. I'm going to head back to the hospital."

"Okay. Let me grab my purse."

He started putting on the jacket he'd abandoned over the arm of the couch. "El?"

She stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Are you okay with this? I know it's hitting close to home, and if it's too much…"

She toyed with the necklace Peter had given her for an anniversary. "If you would have told me years ago that something good could come from Adam's death, I wouldn't have believed you. Helping Neal would be good. I won't let his story end the same way Adam's did."

Peter crossed the living room and kissed his wife's forehead. "I love you."

"Love you, too. Should we bring Neal anything?"

"Do we have tea?"

El's forehead wrinkled. "Tea?"

Peter shrugged. "He was talking about Kate earlier and mentioned that she'd make him chamomile tea with honey."

She smiled. "Sounds comforting."

He nodded. Neal could use some comfort.

###

When they checked in at the hospital, Peter gave the box of files to a nurse, who locked it in Dr. Hill's office. Then he and El headed to Neal's room and knocked on the open door before entering. He tried to remember what it felt like to interact with Neal normally, before the world turned upside down, but it was easy to forget.

Neal was curled up in bed in nearly the same position as he'd been in hours ago.

"Hey," Peter said. "Hope you don't mind, but I brought El. She's prettier than me."

Neal's lips turned up a little, but the smile didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "Hey, Elizabeth."

"How are you doing, Neal?"

He just shook his head.

"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." She held up the travel mug in her hand. "We brought you something."

Peter slid the two visitors' chairs up to the bed and sat down in one. "Correction. El brought you something. She's also nicer than me."

"True, but I had your help," she said.

Neal frowned at the mug. "Thanks, but I don't want anything."

"It's tea. Want to sit up and try some?" When Neal didn't immediately object, she pressed the button to raise the head of his bed, adjusted his pillow, and handed over the mug. "It might still be hot, so sip slowly." She sat in the other visitor's chair and let her hand rest on Peter's knee.

Neal just stared at the mug for a minute, like he wasn't sure what to do with it. Then he lifted it to his lips and took a sip. "Chamomile?" he asked. "With honey?"

"And a little bit of vanilla," El said.

When he blinked, a tear spilled over his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek.

"Oh, Neal. Are you okay? Is it okay?" El asked.

Peter's muscles tensed. What had he been thinking suggesting tea? Something that would certainly remind him of what he couldn't have? "You don't have to drink it," he said. "You just mentioned it earlier…and I thought…"

Neal shook his head, and another tear spilled loose. "It's good. Thank you." He took another sip and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

El thumbed the straggling tear from his cheek. "You're welcome."

"Is there anything else we can bring you?" Peter asked. "Anything you need from June's?"

It spoke volumes about how Neal was feeling that he didn't question how long he was going to be there or ask to wear something other than the gray-blue hospital gown or request a bottle of wine that would be a lot harder to smuggle in than the tea. He just shook his head.

"Let us know if you change your mind," El said.

They were quiet for a minute or two until someone down the hall, presumably another patient, started screaming. Peter noticed the way Neal's hands tightened around the mug, his fingers going slightly white. He nodded to the TV on the wall. "Want me to turn that on? I won't even make you watch sports."

Neal nodded, and Peter turned on the television to distract from the noise, which did eventually stop. They watched a game show, with Peter and El providing most of the commentary while Neal occasionally sipped from his mug. On commercial breaks, Peter patted Neal's arm or squeezed his shoulder, just reminding him they were there. That he wasn't alone.

When the first game show was replaced by a second, Peter and El played along, sometimes answering questions correctly, sometimes being way wrong. It would have been easy to think Neal wasn't paying attention at all until there was an art question.

"Degas," he said softly. On TV, the contestant said Van Gogh, but the host confirmed that Degas was the correct answer.

Peter smiled more than one correct answer deserved. "Good work."

When they brought Neal's dinner tray in, the chicken looked dry and the green beans looked canned. As much as they encouraged, Neal didn't manage more than a few bites. He did drink all of his tea, though, and Peter made a mental note to bring more back the next day.

They were still hanging out, watching TV, when Neal pushed off his blankets and slid to the edge of the bed.

"Need something?" Peter asked.

"Bathroom," Neal said.

Peter stood and kept one hand a few inches from Neal's elbow as he padded on socked feet to the bathroom near the room's entrance. Not only was Peter concerned about possible dizziness from the sedative or from not eating, but Neal just seemed unsteady. Emotionally and physically. Once they reached the bathroom, Neal waved off the assistance, and Peter let him go inside and close the door.

"Doing okay?" he asked El when he returned to his seat.

She nodded. "You can just tell he's hurting so much. Do you really think he's been dealing with this for years?"

Peter sighed. "Maybe. But maybe not to this extreme. If that were the case, I think he would have already…you know…"

"Right." She leaned over the arms of their chairs so she could put her head on his shoulder. "It's funny, when you used to tell me about Neal, when you were trying to catch him, I never imagined this."

"Never imagined you'd be sitting in a hospital room with him?"

"Yes, but more than that. I never imagined caring."

Peter knew how many FBI wives wouldn't care, even about charming, intelligent Caffrey. They wouldn't see what El saw in him because they wouldn't even bother looking. El was one in a million, and he and Neal were both lucky to have her. He kissed the top of her head and tasted her shampoo and everything that was right with the world.

They watched TV in silence for a few minutes before Peter started to worry.

"He's been gone too long," Peter said, nudging her head off his shoulder and returning to the bathroom door. El followed. He knocked twice. "Neal? Are you okay?"

No response.

The door was unlocked. Peter opened it and swore when the small room was empty.

"Did you hear him open this door?" he asked El.

"No, but—"

He didn't wait for the rest of the answer, just rushed into the hall. When he didn't see Neal, he ran to the nurses' station. "Neal Caffrey, room 512, he's gone."

The nurse frowned. "Gone from his room? Patients aren't confined to their rooms. This is a locked floor, so they can—"

"No, you don't understand! He got out! He ran!"

"Peter," El said. "Do you think—"

But he waved her off and pulled his phone from his pocket to find Neal's tracking data.

"Sir," the nurse said, "he couldn't have gotten out. There are multiple security measures in place, including…"

He willed his phone to work faster while the nurse rambled on about security that Neal would have just laughed at.

Suddenly, he froze. Neal wouldn't have laughed. Not now. If it were a yellow day on Peter's calendar, he would have laughed. Would have escaped. But instead of a yellow day, it was so, so blue.

For years, Peter had tried to stay two steps ahead of Neal. Sometimes he settled for being one step behind. But now he realized he was the only one running the race.

He pocketed his phone and walked back to Neal's room. He went into the bathroom, and there, tucked behind the door in an impossibly tiny ball, head buried in his arms, was Neal. El was sitting on the ground next to him, rubbing his back through the thin gown.

"Is he okay?"

El smiled with enough confidence for both of them. "He will be."

###

The next day, Peter, Elizabeth, and Neal all sat in the window-walled conference room with Dr. Hill. It was raining, so water dripped from one pane to the next before disappearing from view.

"I went through Neal's files and was also able to finish evaluating him this morning," Dr. Hill told the Burkes. "Based on what I heard and saw, I'd like to begin treating Neal for bipolar disorder. There are clear manic and depressive episodes with relatively rapid cycling between the two."

The news was far from surprising, but it still saddened Peter more than he thought it would. He squeezed El's hand.

Dr. Hill turned to Neal. "Do you understand, Neal? Remember when I said that might be a possibility?"

Neal was staring out at the rain. The mug of tea they'd brought was on the table in front of him. He nodded.

"Good. I'd like to start you on lithium. It's the gold standard for treating bipolar disorder. It can greatly reduce the severity of the highs and lows, making you more stable. It can also reduce or eliminate suicidal thoughts."

Neal turned to Dr. Hill. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It works for most people," she said, "so let's not worry about that just yet. There are other medications we can add or replace if necessary, but let's start small."

Neal's gaze returned to the window as Dr. Hill explained how they'd start with a low dose and increase over the next several days. How he'd need to have regular blood tests to avoid lithium toxicity and to check his thyroid and kidney function. She also prescribed therapy and time off work.

Peter was sure he could convince the higher ups that Neal needed time off. He was much less confident in his CI's willingness to lie on a couch and talk about his feelings. But that was a problem for another day.

"And he should keep taking the lithium even if he feels better, right?" El asked.

It seemed like a basic question, but it was far from that. That was what had happened to Adam. He'd gone off his medication without telling anyone and fell into depression hard and fast.

"That's correct," Dr. Hill said. "If you feel better, it's because the medication is working. Don't stop taking it. Stopping suddenly can lead to severe depression or mania."

They had agreed not to tell Neal about Adam immediately, not when his own depression was still so strong, but Peter couldn't blame El for wanting to get this point across now. They'd tell him everything else when the time was right.

They finished talking with Dr. Hill, thanked her, then got Neal settled back in his room. The nurse came in shortly after with a pill in a small plastic cup. She scanned the bar code on his hospital bracelet, then handed him the cup.

"I don't think I know," Neal said as he studied the pill.

"Don't know what, sweetie?" El asked.

"Don't know what it feels like without the ups and downs."

"Aren't you ready to get off that roller coaster?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded and swallowed the pill with a sip of tea.

And then they waited.


End file.
